The Price
by LaVioleBlanche
Summary: Inspired by Neil Gaiman's short story. Dean is lost, and a price must be paid by the one who saves him. ANGST, probable but not necessarily character death.


A story I cranked out in one day, inspired by Neil Gaiman's The Price.

Basically, Dean went to Hell and was brought back, but never actually met Castiel. Sam went to Hell, leaving Dean and Bobby, which is where this picks up...

...

Dean doesn't know how much longer he can do this.

It's been two months. Two months since Bobby called Dean in a flurry of confusion and alarm, demanding that he get his ass back to the house. Two months since Sam, alive and whole and impossible, came up the front steps, said, "Hi, Dean," and collapsed.

Two months since his baby brother was pulled from Hell, just as mysteriously as Dean was. Two months since Sammy fell into a coma.

Dean doesn't hunt anymore. He can't; he can't leave Bobby here alone to look after Sammy. So he stays in this house, spending night after night doing research and studying lore, surrounded by wards and alcohol and the skeletons of cars, as his brother gets progressively worse- slipping farther and farther away from him.

It's not fair. Not fair on Sam, not fair on Bobby, not fair on _me_, he thinks selfishly as he stands, shoving his chair away from the table and approaching the window. It's early, before Bobby's up, the sun still weak and groggy. His back aches from falling asleep in the chair.

There is someone outside.

Frowning, Dean goes to the window in the kitchen, to get a better look at the figure. It's a man, sitting hunched and unmoving, in front of the porch steps, seemingly watching the horizon. His dark hair sticks out in a wild tangle above his dusty, oversized trench coat. A hunter? Dean opens the door warily, shotgun within reach, and calls out.

"Hey. Who're you?"

The man is instantly upright, head snapping around to fix the older Winchester with a wide-eyed stare, and holy crap are those eyes blue. Not a hunter, Dean realizes. Maybe a victim, looking for help? Too well-dressed for a hobo, although his ragged clothes and tired eyes suggest that he's spent a fair amount of time walking to get here.

"Speak up, buddy, I don't have all day."

The stranger just stares at him for an uncomfortably long moment, like he's trying to figure Dean out.

Then he just disappears.

_Shit_. Dean grabs the shotgun and slams the door shut. A ghost? Shouldn't be; there's enough salt and reputation in this house to keep even the most vengeful spirit at bay. What, then? A demon? Not likely; he was standing right over one of the traps Bobby sprayed onto the ground outside.

He spends the rest of the morning pacing in aggravation in front of the door, until Bobby snaps at him to go into the library and read a book or something and stop driving him crazy. By the end of the day, when nothing appears to have happened, he manages to relax enough to drift off to sleep on the couch.

Something wakes him up, though, at the bare crack of dawn. For just an instant, he thinks, the windows seemed to rattle. Suspicious, he approaches the door, and sure enough, the guy- creature, whatever he is- is standing there, at the foot of the steps, looking outward. He looks dirtier this time, and as he turns to look at Dean the hunter sees that the front of his shirt is bloodied, his lip split and one eye bruised.

"Hey," Dean snaps. "Either attack me or get outta here."

The dark-haired man blinks once and vanishes again.

He's there again the next morning, and the next, on and on for almost two weeks. Dean wonders how long he's been there, how many mornings of silent staring the human has missed. He doesn't mention it to Bobby, who has enough to worry about already.

The twentieth morning, Dean threatens to shoot him. On the twenty-third day, he does, blasting twin barrels of rock salt into the apparition's chest. The guy grunts, and for a second Dean feels a stab of victory laced with inexplicable fear. Then the man seems to shudder, and the smoking wound closes itself.

It seems he's not entirely immune to harm, however- every morning he looks worse and worse, his clothing more and more torn, his face bloody and bruised.

On the thirtieth day, Sam has some kind of seizure, his limp body thrashing and flailing in mindless spasms. It scares Dean, scares him enough to do something stupid and reckless, because he is _fed up_ with _everything_.

When Blue Eyes appears again the next morning, the hunter storms out the door and onto the steps.

"You did this, didn't you?" His voice shakes with anger. "What's happening to Sam; it's your fault, isn't it? What _are_ you?"

Blue Eyes only stares sadly at him, silent, hands hanging at his sides.

"You-" Dean can't take it anymore; he's in front of the strange man in three swift strides, swinging a fist.

He might as well punch one of the cars. His knuckles throb painfully, and he sucks in a breath to shout, "Just leave him alone! Go away! Leave us alone!"

The smaller man tilts his head, watching Dean nurse his hand, and disappears. Dean throws his head back and just screams at the sky.

That night, in the study alone, Dean stands at the window, trying to think and trying _not_ to think, when he sees a figure coming up the driveway. At first he assumes it's Blue Eyes, and he goes to grab the shotgun, to give the guy a clear, if apparently pointless, message. By the time he gets back to the window, however, it's clear that this is not the case.

The thing that's coming up the drive is not human. Oh, it looks human enough- a tall blonde man, lanky legs and grey-blue eyes and a slightly aloof expression, nothing too out-of-the-ordinary. But there is something following him. Something invisible and cold and dark and terrifying, and Dean takes an involuntary step back, clutching the gun even though he knows, somewhere in his bones, that it will do nothing against this creature. He knows, somehow, that this man- this thing- is here for Sam, and that Dean and Bobby and all their guns and spells and wards can do absolutely nothing to stop him. They are helpless, defenseless as children against this threat.

When the man gets to the porch steps, he hesitates, and Dean thinks for a fleeting second that maybe the salt and charms are working. Then the man gestures, and the front door swings open, and the ring of salt catches fire and is gone in seconds like it was never there, and the man smirks and takes the first step.

And then there is a burst of wind, and a blurred shape, and the man is knocked to the ground with a look of fury. Blue Eyes stands over him, blocking the stairs, his coat dirty and torn and billowing around him, a bent and rusted sword in one hand, and Dean feels the overwhelming urge to cheer.

The blonde man doesn't stay down for long; he is up on his feet and circling the smaller being in an instant. His expression goes from rage to calculating to soft and gentle, and he holds out a placating hand to Blue Eyes, speaking quietly in some strange soothing language. Blue Eyes swings his blade, stabbing at the man's hand, and the taller creature snarls, grabs him by the throat and flips him onto the ground. Blue Eyes rolls quickly, just as the man swipes at him with fingers that are suddenly talons. They circle each other again, the man shifting shape so fast that Dean can barely keep track of him- one second he's a demon, eight feet tall with flaming eyes and vicious fangs, then he's a massive grey cat, scarred and spitting, then he's a hound, drooling and panting and covered in maggots and every time his mouth opens there's a chorus of screams from inside his bloody throat. He's a serpent, weaving and darting too fast for the eye to see, striking out again and again and again, sinking his fangs into his opponent and pulling away, red-mouthed, to watch Blue Eyes stagger from the poison and pain.

But every time he moves to slip past, every lunge he makes, he is met with the smaller man's sword, his fist, his foot, keeping the creature at bay. He shrieks his fury, frustration and anger making the windows rattle, and Dean wants to run out there and help, wants to stop this horror, if only he could move. He doesn't understand _how_, how Blue Eyes can still be standing, fighting, in the oppressive terror of this monster, this devil.

The devil seems to change tactics- he's still striking at his enemy, but suddenly he's missing. His fangs swipe through the air behind the dark-haired being, just above his shoulders, tearing and snapping at nothing. Except it can't be nothing, because Blue Eyes lets out the first noise Dean's ever heard him make, a long, drawn-out _scream_ that freezes the hunter's blood. Something is falling around him, something not quite there, falling in chunks and spurts with every snap of the devil's teeth. There is blood everywhere now, but it's not coming from anywhere.

Then there is a flash of lightning, and the brief shadow of two massive limbs, and Dean understands. He understands, and he feels tears pouring down his face at this travesty, this injustice, and still he cannot move.

It goes on for hours, these two impossible things clawing and stabbing and rending each other apart. Finally, the first brush of sunlight paints the horizon, illuminating the junkyard in silver. The serpent's fangs are buried deep in Blue Eyes' shoulder, and his sword is hilt-deep in the creature's throat. With a last, spiteful hiss, the devil pulls away, slipping easily back into his human shape, suddenly whole and unharmed, letting his still-bloody opponent stumble back. He watches dispassionately as the dark-haired being sways, leaning heavily on his own sword but still standing, still blocking the devil's access to the house.

The devil turns, as if to leave, and then his head snaps around and he looks at the house. At the window. At Dean.

He glowers. He glares with all the fury and fire of an evil thing thwarted. And then he vanishes.

The house's guardian slumps painfully, and even at this distance Dean can see his shoulders shaking with the effort of movement. He turns, much slower than the devil had, and catches sight of the human, his agonized expression freezing on his face, and Dean realizes that he can move again.

He runs to the door, slamming it open and not caring if he wakes Bobby as he flings himself down the steps to find-

-to find that Blue Eyes is already gone.

Dean stares around the yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of the trench coat behind a car, a flash of dark hair, and knowing that he won't. He turns reluctantly back to the house, unsure of what to do.

Out of habit, and because it's what he always does when he feels helpless, he makes his way to Sam's room.

But Sam is gone.

Not _gone_ in the way that Dean has been dreading- no cold, lifeless body, its last strength having slipped away in the night- only an empty bed, the sheets mussed and slept-in. A bizarrely familiar sight, one that makes no sense at all until he hears Bobby's shocked cry.

He goes tearing down the hallway, his mind a storm of _what if-?_ and skids into the old hunter's room.

Sam is standing there, looking thin and tired but alive, perfectly and wonderfully alive and awake and Dean thinks that if this is like last time, if his brother falls again, he will die. He won't be able to take it; he'll just fold in on himself and die because this is too cruel-

He doesn't get to finish his thought, though, because Sam is on him in an instant, long arms wrapping around him and squeezing the air from his lungs, and Bobby is shouting at them to help him up so he can strangle Sam's ass, and Dean feels a rush of giddy euphoria, and for the first time in months, he laughs.

The standard tests are run: holy water, salt, personal history questions. There's no explanation for it- no one has made a deal, no terrible price has been paid, but it's Sam. Dean thinks it over and over to himself, _It's Sam. It's Sam._ He wants to cry but he doesn't let himself; instead he throws his arms around his little brother once more and holds onto him for dear life, thanking someone, anyone-

He stops, still hugging Sam, and remembers.

He thinks of the battle in the junkyard, the blood and screams and the sound of feathers torn out, and he feels a chill as he wonders once again just what price has been paid for this moment.

Evening approaches, and as much as Dean wants to go back to the den, to eat the pizza Bobby ordered and drink beer with his brother and just be happy, he finds himself drawn back to the window. He's there for a long time, because when he hears his brother's voice behind him the sky has already darkened to night.

"His name's Castiel."

Dean doesn't move. "How do you know?"

"He came to help us."

"Yeah," Dean says, not looking away from the window. "It kind of took me a while to figure that out."

The taller Winchester hesitates. "He said... he said that he's been trying for months to find my soul, to tie it to my body again. That the devil wanted my empty body so he could walk the earth."

"Who is he?"

Sam looks sideways at him, considering. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you, Dean."

Which is ridiculous.

"Well..." Dean huffs. "Well, if he was just trying to help, why the hell didn't he _tell_ me?"

Sam shakes his head. "His voice is- it hurts people. He can't control it; he could only talk to me because I'm psychic."

"Well, where is he? I guess I owe him an apology and a cold one."

"He- this morning when I woke up, he was there but he was- I don't know, he was sort of fading in and out. Like he couldn't breathe." Sam turns worried, knowing eyes to his brother. "He said to tell you that I'll be safe now. And that he's sorry he upset you. He said he's sorry for everything."

Dean doesn't want to listen; doesn't want to acknowledge what those words mean. He shoves the door open, stumbling down the porch steps blindly, searching the yard with a panicky gaze. "You're here," he says, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. "You've gotta be here; you're always here."

There is not so much a noise as a feeling, the sensation of movement, behind him, and he spins, seeing nothing for a moment before his eyes catch something shifting, something that's not quite there. A bundle of rags and pale skin that seems to fade into the background. A pair of unnaturally blue eyes open, and somehow the battered being seems to come into focus. He's sitting against the steps, wrapped in the remains of his coat, blood pooling around him.

Far too much blood.

He's watching Dean wordlessly, as always, that mournful, exhausted look that the hunter understands now. He tries to shift away when Dean takes a step toward him, clutching his coat tighter as he struggles for breath. The wound on his shoulder, the only one visible despite all the blood, seeps red and something black and viscous, and that alone is enough to make a cold pit form in the human's stomach, but what makes him choke with terror and sorrow is the light that flows from the injury in quick bursts. Little fireworks of white glow that spin into the air and die, and with each one the blue-eyed man's skin grows paler, his breathing weaker, and he flickers for a moment.

"_No_," Dean says wretchedly, falling to his knees and leaning forward to grab the smaller being, pulling his unresisting form into an embrace.

"I know what you are," he whispers, rocking the broken body in his arms. "I know what you are, Castiel."

The angel's eyes- his beautiful eyes, the only part of him that doesn't fade- widen with surprise and hope and regret. "Dean," he says in an ageless, depthless voice that seems to echo inside the hunter's soul. "Dean, Dean."

He coughs, blood and sparks of light spraying the air, and raises a hand, slowly, agonizingly, to the human's shoulder, where it fits perfectly.

Dean can't help it then; he folds his body over Castiel's, presses his lips to the angel's, a single hot tear catching between their mouths. He wants to say so many things, wants to say he's sorry, so sorry, and that he wants Castiel to stay with him, and that somehow, through some impossibly cruel twist of Fate or some kind of sick cosmic joke, he loves this undeserved guardian with every fiber of his being. What he says is,"It's not fair." He kisses the angel again, helplessly. "It's not fair."

Castiel's bloody lips pull painfully upward into something like a smile, sad and bitter and tender. "I know."


End file.
